


Dress to Kill

by inabathrobe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/inabathrobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John runs off to get pissed after an argument and tries to pick someone up, things do not go as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress to Kill

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted to the Kink Meme.](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=48907688) Not britpicked, probably not totally canon-compliant.

Dress to Kill

He slams the door shut behind him and hits it savagely, not really wishing to hit Sherlock but hoping Sherlock thinks he does. Sherlock shouts something that may or may not be, "You're such a child!", which is rich coming from him, and definitely isn't at all flattering.

Mrs. Hudson chooses that moment to stick her head out into the hallway. She looks at John. John looks at her, eyes agleam with the fury of a thousand suns. She goes back into her own flat.

No, no, they are not having a domestic.

John needs to relax, really and properly, which he hasn't done in too long and to which living with Sherlock "Science in Your Home at All Hours" Holmes is not exactly conducive. He walks down the stairs and out the door and tries to look as jaunty as possible as he hails a cab because he knows Sherlock is watching.

Later, through his third-beer goggles, he thinks the girl in the club looks familiar. He wonders if that should be some sort of warning —like his subconscious is trying to tell him that this is a bad idea and he's going to wake up to a hangover and an angry flatmate. The voice that says, "Bad idea, John," sounds unnervingly like Sherlock, though, and Sherlock is the last person John wants advice from right now.

He watches her drinking something pink and probably fruity, leaving little red lip-marks on the edge of the glass. He watches her lick the salt off the rim. He watches her finish her cocktail. He watches her look up and notice him watching her.

And then he watches her give him a slow smile, and his stomach does a little flip-flop that would be juvenile and embarrassing in a fourteen-year-old.

He finishes the bottle he has been nursing in a gulp and steels himself. Sarah and Sherlock are not here and do not matter. Concentrate, John. He buys her a drink, but when the bartender serves it to her, sitting a little way down the bar from him, he points John out to her. She leans over, peering past the other patrons, appraising him, and then, sliding back into her seat, accepts the drink. She finishes it in one swallow and leans forward again and catches his eye and maybe winks, but it could be the drink and the low lights playing tricks on him. He slides down the bar, looking for her, but she's gone. He turns, about to go back to his seat because there are other girls after all, and catches sight of her on the dance floor.

She beckons to him.

John Watson is many things —doctor, soldier, detective's assistant, and picker up of the milk and biscuits from Tesco, among others— but the sort of man that women beckon to is not ranking particularly high on the list lately. He slides through the crowd toward her. Up close, he realizes that she is tall and thin and doesn't have curves and her face is a bit weird. He wonders if she's a model because she has the body type and she's well-dressed and attractive without being at all beautiful. She is wearing something black and skin tight and probably shiny. There are some sequins on her top, and they catch the light, and she smiles at him.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

They dance. He isn't very good, but she isn't either, and it probably isn't helped by her being several inches taller than he is. She brushes a hand against his hip, intentionally accidental, and he moves in closer. She has long black eyelashes and a sticky gaze that tends to settle in places other than John's face. Her lips are very red looking, sort of shiny, so whatever sort of stuff she's got on them is probably going to get on his lips, too, and on his face and on other places and won't quite come out, no matter how hard he scrubs, and Sherlock will deduce things in the morning.

She leans against him, coiling hips and damp skin under fishnet stockings. He runs his hand over her thigh, snagging his fingers on her tights. She makes a little noise somewhere at the back of her throat, and he puts his hand on her chin, going to kiss her, but she moves her head, slipping out of his fingers.

The song changes then, and it's something faster and poppier, and she turns away from him, which is a shame because he'd rather not be rejected by some girl who doesn't even know about the war or crime-solving or severed heads in the refrigerator and with whom he'd really, really like to get off.

And she leans back and puts her hand on his hip and grinds against him.

At first, he's in shock, but it doesn't last very long. Her arse is firm and small, but the flesh sinks nicely under his fingers. He pulls her closer and rocks his hips against her arse and runs a hand up to cup a small, high breast, and she gives a little gasp. He watches a wet pink tongue flick across her lips and he tilts her chin and kisses her.

They lose track of the rhythm of the song —or maybe it's a different song by now— and he slides his tongue into her mouth, which is sticky and red and gasping, and he finds that he doesn't mind so much if Sherlock knows that he fucked her tomorrow morning. He sucks on her lower lip and slides a hand between her legs, running it up the inside of her thigh, higher, higher, until her hand on his arm stops him.

"Don't."

"Come home with me," he says, and he knows it’s the alcohol talking, and his voice sounds desperate, and home is where Sherlock is, and Sherlock and one night stands don't mix well, and it sounds like a good idea at the time anyway because she has a great arse and John is lonely. She sways with the music for a few moments before she agrees, her voice soft and low in his ear. They make their way out, and she doesn't stop to tell anyone she's leaving. She doesn't even have a purse on her. He wonders where she keeps her ID.

She looks terribly young under the streetlights, sodium yellow, and he almost asks her how old she is. They stand side by side on the sidewalk as John tries to hail a cab. The first two speed past him, but she manages to convince the third to slow down by shouting and running into the street. They clamber into the back, and John gives his address, and he pulls her into his lap and starts to kiss her again, running his hands over her long thin legs, fragile and feminine and—

"Hey, you two, not in my cab, all right?"

She murmurs an apology and settles back into her own seat. He watches her looking out the window until they arrive in Baker Street. He pays the cabbie with clumsy hands and scrambles onto the pavement, pulling her with him. She stumbles and catches herself by grabbing hold of his arm, and her grip surprises him with its firmness. They go up the steps, perilous in the ill-lit darkness, and he unlocks the front door, feeling oddly like a teenager sneaking home.

He shuts the door behind them. "Second floor." He hears her on the stair, but cannot see her. She stops at the first landing, waiting for him. "Next one." She goes up a little further, and he presses her up against the front door, apologizing to Mrs. Hudson in his head, kissing her, one hand half under her blouse, the other fumbling with his keys.

The door gives way behind them, and they fall, half laughing, into the silent darkness of the front hall. "Shhh, you'll wake up my flatmate," he hisses.

"I'm sure he won't mind."

"Oh, he'll _mind_." John makes a face in the darkness at the threat of Sherlock's wrath. In fact, John is only hoping that Sherlock is asleep at all. John is lucky, though, and Sherlock is nowhere to be found, and the light under his door is out, and they slip up the dark stairs to John's third floor bedroom, and he flicks the light switch on. She's more beautiful in proper light. If she was attractive in the club, she's downright pretty now. He pulls her close to kiss, slowly and thoroughly, her mouth sweet from a cocktail drunk hours before. He slips a hand up the back of her blouse and unfastens her bra. He slips it over her shoulders, and she wriggles out of it, separating them. It is purple with black lace, bright against the hardwood floor.

He pulls his button-down over his head and lies down on the bed and starts fiddling with the fly on his jeans because, well, he would like her to suck him off, and he isn't going to insist if she doesn't want to, but he is going to suggest it, subtly or not. She toes off her heels and then, shimmying slightly to manage it, she pulls off her fishnets without exposing anything above the hem of her skirt. It's infuriating, but he makes an embarrassing little moaning noise anyway, and she giggles. She climbs onto the bed and straddles him, and he is ridiculously hard, and fuck it, he's willing to give up the blow job, and she leans forward to kiss him and smiles, and then her face breaks into a grin and she— laughs.

And it's the laugh that he recognizes.

He lets out a strangled cry. "Sherlock, you— you absolute arsehole."

"Think of it as a valuable lesson."

"About not bringing home strange women?"

"I'm not a woman!"

"Sherlock, it's okay if—"

"I think I would know if I were a woman, biological empiricism aside."

John does not appreciate fifteen pound words in the bedroom. "Well, what are you then, some sort of drag queen?"

"I'm not a drag queen; I'm a transvestite. Do your research." Sherlock looks more sincerely offended and indignant than any man with red lip gloss smeared across his face had any right to look.

"Oh, you fucking—" John would launch himself at Sherlock if Sherlock himself weren't sitting rather defiantly on John's lap. As it is, he swings as if to hit Sherlock who ducks and rolls off him onto his back, laughing. He scrambles and pins Sherlock down. Sherlock wriggles to try to get away, but isn't really trying because he's still laughing himself sick. John hits him. Sherlock doesn't stop laughing until after the first hit and then he's begging John to stop, still giggling intermittently and trying to block John's blows, which aren't very vicious after the first hit anyway and which he may or may not seem to be enjoying. John looks down at Sherlock, squirming, hands thrown up in front of him, wig askew, skirt nearly up to his hips, looking, for all things, utterly debauched and in John Watson's own bed at that. He collapses next to him, burying his face in the duvet and wishing the last two hours away.

"John, get off."

"No."

"Go take a nice warm shower, take care of yourself, and _get off me_."

"If you really loved me, you'd suck me off."

"What? _No._ "

John huffs. He knows.

"Get off." Sherlock shoves him.

Doctor John Watson, all dignity and poise, rises and betakes himself to the bathroom. He turns the shower on and sheds his clothes as he waits for it to heat up. When the water is warm enough, he steps under the stream of water and shivers at the feel of it running over his skin. He wraps a hand around his cock and shuts his eyes and fists himself quickly and mercilessly. He imagines that it's the girl doing it, only she's quite obviously Sherlock against the back of his eyelids. She's a little bit giggly, and he pushes her around a bit, and then he decides he is going to fuck her. He presses her against the wall of the shower and enters her and she is tight and hot and Sherlock definitely doesn't have a pussy but he doesn't think too hard about it and she's moaning and writhing and he is whispering Sherlock's name and then he's coming over his hand and he arches his back and groans and feels so much better. He soaps up and washes his hair and gets the smell of smoke and beer out. Eventually, he starts to prune, and he turns off the water and dries himself off, suddenly exhausted.

He returns, clothes in hand, a towel slung low around his waist. The girl's clothes — _Sherlock_ 's clothes— are sitting in a neat pile on a chair. Sherlock has not gone back to his own bed, but instead has curled up under the covers of John's own. He sighs, pulls on a pair of pants, drops his towel on the floor, and lifts the duvet to crawl under it.

Sherlock is wearing a pair of knickers that match the bra John took off him earlier. "Sherlock, really?"

"What's wrong with them?" 

He isn't arguing with Sherlock at two in the morning. John sighs, the battle lost practically before it began. He crawls into bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin. He feels Sherlock shift beside him, and Sherlock first risks slipping an arm around his chest and then sliding a warm leg over John's and finally curling up to him, pressing up to John's chest. "Idiot," he mutters, and he wraps an arm around Sherlock as he feels him instinctively start to pull away.

"Irony doesn't suit you," Sherlock murmurs from somewhere near John's left shoulder. John wants to say something terribly clever in response, but Sherlock yawns enormously as if bringing an end to all discussion and pretends to go to sleep. It will do.


End file.
